


Short-Circuit

by kujojongup



Series: Random YoungUp Stuff [10]
Category: B.A.P
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gang Violence, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Blood, Pre-Skydive, small mentions of drug addiction and suicide but nothing major, this is self-indulgent oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 00:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15569907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kujojongup/pseuds/kujojongup
Summary: Youngjae can't fix his own broken wires, but he can solder himself and Jongup together and hope for the best.





	Short-Circuit

**Author's Note:**

> chapter 6 of hearth is in yg's dungeon at this point
> 
> disclaimer: love does not fix mental health problems. the ending here is not meant to imply that because that's an extremely awful way of thinking. love can make you feel accepted, and it can make you feel like less of an outcast for having problems. but that is not the same as fixing those problems.
> 
> please don't interpret this is love-cures-all
> 
> now, enjoy some unstable hitmen and a fucking lack of proofreading

It’s 1:12 A.M and Youngjae had gone to bed at fucking nine, hoping to get a good eight hours of rest before being woken up by the voices of One Direction that serve as his alarm. R.E.M sleep included.

With his tendency to go to bed at anywhere from three to five, getting up at 5:30 in the goddamn morning would be hell. So he got some over-the-counter sleeping pills, and prayed to God that he’d be well-rested with his sleeping schedule set back to healthy afterwards.

Not that he actually believed it would, but hey. It doesn’t hurt to actually try.

It’s 1:12 A.M and Youngjae’s phone is blaring like it’s the end of the world.

Of course, it wakes him up, but he feels like he’s living in a jar of mayonnaise. Everything is heavy and foggy—it’s hard to register what’s going on with the pills still working on his body.

By the time he’s genuinely conscious, he’s confused as to what woke him up.

And then his phone starts blaring again, scaring the living shit out of him and kicking every last bit of the sleeping pills out of his head as he nearly rolls off the edge.

After two rings, he heaves, and snatches the phone off his nightstand. The charger rips out and taps against the floor.

Clicking the home button momentarily blinds Youngjae. He reaches over and pushes his lamp light on to help him adjust faster. Then, he squints at his screen.

_Mama Bird._

He presses the green button and wants to bash his head against the wall. “Himchan? Give me one good fucking reason-”

“Jongup’s been stabbed and we need you at the den like ten minutes ago.”

“…Make a pot of coffee before I get there.”

Youngjae doesn’t wait for an answer before he disconnects and throws his phone at the wall. It has a rubber case—it’s fine. It leaves a dent in the drywall, but it’s fine.

He groans and stuffs his face in his hands, already feeling a headache coming on.

“For fuck’s sake…”

 

* * *

 

He shows up in his oversized pajama pants, sneakers, and a hoodie zipped up over his bare chest.

He looks like death, he feels like death, and downing black coffee with three teaspoons of sugar isn’t enough to make him feel better.

Realistically, Jongup feels worse. He’s the one getting stitched up without any anesthetic. But Youngjae can’t help but not give a shit as he does his work. He doesn’t even try to make it better—Daehyun’s the one whispering reassurances and Junhong’s letting the circulation get cut off in his hand from Jongup’s grip. Youngjae’s just the asshole who’s being as detached and methodical as he can be.

It’s not too deep of a wound, thankfully. Himchan hadn’t been accurate with the whole ‘he was stabbed’ thing—it was more like he was sliced deeply. That’s fine. Jongup’s just one suture and a bit of rest away from being fine. The wound just barely reaches the depth where it actually needs to be sewn up.

Youngjae makes it as quick as possible, but he doesn’t make it painless. Which sucks for him because that means Jongup doesn't make himself quiet. Youngjae’s headache gets worse each second that Jongup hollers in agony.

By the time he’s done, Jongup’s gone pale. His entire body is covered in a layer of sweat, and his eyes are blown wide. He’s panting, and tear marks run down the sides of his face. Daehyun’s running a hand through his hair and telling him that’s it’s all over and _'you did so well'_. Junhong is still holding his hand, but uses his other to massage the blood back into the one that had been cut off.

Himchan stands over the table with a worried look on his face, and Yongguk hands Youngjae a refilled mug of sweet, sweet coffee.

“Thanks,” he grumbles. He checks the time on his phone, and sees that it’s quarter-to three. “Do we still need to meet here at five, or…”

“I’m handing our target off to Jaebum,” Himchan says. “I called him earlier. He agreed to split the takeaway in half since we got everything together. I’m not bringing Jongup out like this.”

“Surprised that lenient bitch isn’t dead yet,” Youngjae sighs, as if he hadn’t almost been Jaebum’s colleague before he decided to fuck off into the sunset with Himchan. “And you’re not bringing me out like this, too.”

Himchan raises an eyebrow at him and looks over his appearance. Dishevelled and miserable.

“I tried sleeping pills,” he continues. “You woke me up halfway through their runtime.”

A look of understanding crosses Himchan’s face before he looks back at Jongup, watching the two pussies of the group—that’s just Youngjae’s opinion—comfort him. Yongguk pats him on the back.

At least someone gives a shit about Youngjae’s current misery. This is why Yongguk’s his favourite.

He nurses his coffee as he gets up and fetches a towel, bringing it back to wipe the sweat off of Jongup. It’s an excuse to admire his abs and tattoos and generally everything, but it’s not like he was ever trying to hide it. It might be morally wrong to admire a guy who looks like he’s in shock after going through a few strong bouts of pain over the last two hours, sure.

Everything they do is morally wrong, though.

“So, what? Are we going on hiatus until he’s good to go?” Youngjae asks to no one in particular.

“Just you and him,” Himchan answers.

Youngjae looks up—and he must look rabid with his heavy eyes and mussed hair because Himchan nearly takes a step back. _“What?”_ he says, voice so low that it sounds almost like he’s growling.

“He was stabbed-”

“Sliced-”

“-in his own home. He can’t go back there,” Himchan says. “And someone has to take care of him.”

“I’m not a fucking _babysitter_.” Youngjae feels like he just might burst from frustration. If this was happening at, say, sometime in the late afternoon, he’d be a bit more agreeable. But it’s nearly three in the goddamn morning and he wants to rip his hair out.

Yongguk puts his hands on Youngjae’s shoulders and presses his thumbs into his shoulder blades, forcing him to relax. He starts kneading the tension out and—yeah, Yongguk’s the best.

Himchan waits until Youngjae hums before he talks again. “You can do your work and take care of him the easiest, so please?”

Well, it’s not like Youngjae would’ve said no, but he rolls his eyes anyways. “Fine.”

In front of him, Jongup’s eyes fall shut and his breaths even out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Youngjae will admit that his apartment isn’t much. He never cared about making it look personal—there’s no reason to. It’s mostly just plain, generic furniture that he got when he bought the place. The last tenant was an old woman who died and had no nearby relatives to claim her shit, so it was first-come-first-serve and he got it all. Including the money she had stowed away.

His own things just built up after a while, namely books and cords and small gadgets that he likes to tweak with in his spare time. Nothing much, just walkie-talkies and old phones and remote-controlled toys when he gets bored. Some D.I.Y shit, too.

“Be careful not to mess with anything,” Youngjae tells Jongup and he lays him down on the couch. He knows from experience that it’s comfortable enough to sleep on, so if Jongup wants to complain he’ll need more than just a quick stitch.

“Okay,” Jongup says, grunting as he’s dropped just a bit. The sun is coming up now, casting a light through the apartment. Birds tweet outside, but his attention is caught by the coffee table. “What’s that?”

Youngjae hums and follows Jongup’s eyes, looking at the small digital clock on the table. Well, digital clock and radio. It’s a nostalgic little thing. “That’s a clock.”

“The numbers keep changing?”

“I messed with it,” Youngjae says, shrugging. He lifts the blanket on the back of the couch and drapes it over Jongup. “It’s a radio, too. I’m actually using its old parts to make a transmitter we can use. It’s basic but I haven’t gotten around to finishing it.”

A radio board sits titled on the table next to the radio itself, and is hooked up to what looks like a large battery pack. Some cables twist together and connect to an old iPhone.

“What would we need it for?” Jongup asks.

“If we ever need to intercept someone’s signal. Using a homemade transmitter made of scraps is cheaper than getting a whole set up. I just need to work my way up to getting something a bit stronger, that’s all.”

Realistically, they’re never going to need a transmitter like this for anything—Youngjae knows that. It’s just better to say that it’s for the gang than for him to say that he just likes to mess with random electronics in his spare time.

“I didn’t know,” Jongup says dumbly.

Youngjae snorts. “Of course you didn’t. It’s not like I go around telling people.”

“Does anyone else in the gang know?” Jongup persists. His voice is slower than it normally is, and a lot more slurred. Youngjae thinks he probably should’ve double-checked how much oxycodone he actually gave Jongup—but it’s not like he’s dying or anything.

“Yeah. You’re the only one that hasn’t been to my place, so…” he trails off, shrugging.

Jongup furrows his eyebrows weakly. “Even Daehyun?”

Shit—did Youngjae accidentally get him high? “Are you dumb? I kept him here for like two weeks before I even brought him to the den,” he says. “And then he lived here for, like, half a year.”

Jongup blinks for a few moments before his mouth opens in realization. “Oh, right.”

“Go to bed, you’re not thinking right now,” Youngjae says as he ruffles Jongup’s hair absent-mindedly.

He doesn’t hear Jongup’s answer over the sound of his own house slippers tapping on the wooden floor. It’s a short walk to his bedroom, and then he’s slumped over the side of his bed, rubbing his temples. The lamplight is still on—he forgot to shut it off when he bolted out of the apartment.

His mind works on autopilot for him. Change the dressing over the suture tomorrow to a better, waterproof one. Use Polysporin. Don’t give Jongup any more oxycodone and keep him off painkillers for a full day—or two, just to be sure. Then, commit suicide to remedy this god awful headache.

Fuck, it’s unbearable. He drags himself back out to his kitchen just to snag some ibuprofen, and Jongup is already asleep. Perfect. The longer he stays asleep, the better.

Youngjae is never in the mood to deal with seething, withdrawn Jongup. As in normal Jongup. Maybe he should just keep giving him oxycodone to keep him docile-

That thought gets chased away _fast_. Faster than his mother’s hands used to shake and faster than his dad got the fuck out before it was too late.

It’s almost 6:00 A.M and Youngjae feels like throwing himself off the balcony already.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Luckily, Jongup’s in-and-out of sleep for a full day. Meaning Youngjae has no qualms forcing himself to stay up and go to bed at a healthy 9:00 P.M and wake up the next day at a 6:00 A.M alarm. He feels refreshed, maybe even a little bit cheery. Contacting Himchan and getting updates on their money seems like less of a chore and _shit_ , Youngjae might just have a productive day for once.

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and the scent of coffee is already wafting through the air.

Wait, _what?_

That breaks Youngjae’s good mood and makes him reach for the gun in his bedside drawer—until he hears the sound of humming in a high tone that’s most definitely Jongup’s voice, and then he’s just confused.

And still tired, but that’s just because he’s always tired.

Like a puppet on strings, Youngjae hobbles out of his bedroom and finds Jongup in the kitchen. He’s sipping on some coffee with froth in it, and it makes anger boil up in Youngjae’s stomach.

Before he can yell, though, Jongup looks at him. “The coffee’s fresh. I checked your alarm,” he says. His voice is clearer from a lack of drugs inside of him. “Want some?”

The boiling turns to a simmer. “I didn’t say you could touch my shit,” Youngjae grumbles. But he doesn’t refuse, and moves to get his favourite mug out and indulge himself. The milk in the frother is still fresh, too. “But thanks.”

“‘Least I can do.” Jongup shrugs.

Youngjae isn’t used to a Jongup that isn’t rolling his eyes or glaring or making some weird, creepy Joker smile. It’s weird that he’s being _normal_. And Youngjae doesn’t care that he’s being obvious when he looks Jongup up and down, skeptical and wary, and takes him in. No leather, no black, no makeup—just him in low-hanging sweatpants that were shoved into a duffle bag and brought with him. Courtesy of Himchan.

Youngjae does care, though, when Jongup smiles at him. There’s no teeth or glint in his eye. It’s more awkward and, of all things, cute. Like he’s trying to be friendly to a stranger.

“What’s up with you?” Youngjae demands.

Jongup’s eyes go wide, and he’s being cute again, like a puppy that’s just been given a command it doesn’t quite understand yet. “What?”

“You’re being weird.”

Was Jongup even the one who got injured, or is this some twin brother that just happened to visit at the wrong time?

“I just woke up?” Jongup guesses, somehow not understanding what Youngjae’s talking about.

“…I’ll take it,” Youngjae sighs, and sips his coffee.

 

Ah, Jongup made it perfect.

Youngjae loves a man who makes a good coffee.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A routine starts to fall into place, naturally.

Youngjae wakes up, and coffee is already there for him. Jongup cared to learn how to make Youngjae’s mug, so he doesn’t have to do it himself and risk spilling it out of the pot and burning himself. Although he insists that’s never happened before, Jongup doesn’t trust a morning zombie to handle hot liquids.

The main part of the day is variable. Sometimes Youngjae does errands and gets groceries, other times he stays home and works on writing up mission reports to the Boss, other times he spends the entire day messing with some random electronics. It gets boring when Himchan doesn’t let him go to the den for more than an hour, insisting that he lays low with Jongup while they handle the dirty work.

A week passes by, feeling like an entire month, and the team’s assigned to a quick hit.

It’s about 8:00 P.M and Youngjae’s got himself rigged into his office chair in the corner of the living room, where his desk is placed with a laptop and a three-monitor setup. Complete with a soundboard attached to a radio of some sort, a remote, and an extra keyboard for commands.

He doesn’t even notice when Jongup brings a chair over to sit beside him and watch—not until he coughs and scares the living daylights out of Youngjae and nearly makes him scream.

“Youngjae? Are you okay?” Daehyun asks, voice coming through the headphones around Youngjae’s neck. The mic is tilted up to his mouth.

“Yeah, Jongup’s just being a fucking ghost,” he snarls, thrumming with anger for a good minute.

His eyes flicker over the monitors, a few security camera streams on the center and leftmost screens. The view from his drone is on the right, hovering over the elegant yet unsuspecting waterfront home. It looks like a house that would be owned by a family of four, with a jock son and a daughter that loves competitive dance.

Wouldn’t that be so much nicer?

“She’s on her balcony right now. Get in there,” he orders as he stares at the woman sipping on a drink and reading a book, lost in her own world.

He shuts down the recording of the security cameras as they go in, but keeps the real-time surveillance going to keep an eye on them. When it’s over he’ll erase six days-worth of footage to make it seem broken. The alarm system is already off, and her front door is unlocked. Rich people should understand that the classic key is better than a code. You can’t fuck with a keyhole as easily as you can something that operates electronically.

As they go through the house and take what they can, slowly leading up to the balcony where the target is, Youngjae pulls his laptop over and starts to work on draining her back account and certain connections. Everything’s already set up, and has been for a week in advance because he’s a plan-ahead guy. There’s no fuck ups if you’re completely prepared.

It puts him in a good mood as he gets a mental pat on the back from himself. _Good job, Youngjae. You’re a real asset. You work so hard and efficiently, wow._ He chuckles, takes the money, and starts to add in little things because he’s in that good of a mood.

“Make it look like a suicide,” he says into his microphone.

Junhong’s the one who answers him. “Easier said than done.”

“Just fucking do it. It’s not like you’re on a time limit.”

Youngjae hums a random tune as he speeds through some added enhancements to the job that the Boss will most certainly be happy with. Coal tar is banned in cosmetics, right? He uses up a bit of her company’s savings to purchase shipments of coal tar from a shady source he did prior research on, with little-to-no checks or regulations. He redacts some employee payments to make up for it. A good little scandal.

Well, that’s just the simplified version of what he’s doing.

It’s not like Jongup could understand it any other way—or the rest of the team.

“Feel left out?” he asks Jongup, tilting the microphone away from his mouth. Jongup’s eyes flicker over all the screens, watching closely.

“If it’s going to be a faked suicide, they should hang her from her ceiling fan with a chair kicked under her,” he says. “Watch her struggle and dance trying to get away.”

Youngjae stares at Jongup for a moment, recognizing the man that seems to have disappeared the last week. There’s that violent look in his eyes.

“Right,” he says. He tilts the microphone back up. “Hang her from the ceiling fan in her bedroom. Have a chair looking kicked out under her. Don’t wound her or use any chemicals because that’ll fuck with the autopsy they’re going to do.”

“What if she screams?” Daehyun whispers.

“Well, don’t grab her on the balcony where everyone can hear her.” Youngjae rolls his eyes. He scans the monitors again, and sees that her phone has been left unattended on her bedside table. She’d definitely hear it through the glass door to her balcony. “Her phone’s in her room. I’ll make it ring, she’ll come inside, and then you pounce.”

“Sounds good,” Yongguk says. Youngjae can see him nod to himself. Cute.

It’s just waiting, from there. Waiting as they go through each room, taking what valuables they can get away with. It can’t be obvious she was robbed. They leave half of the money in her safe—good. It’ll be good if it gets out that she’s in debt through her back account and has less money stored than she should. She killed herself from the stress. It’s plausible enough that only conspiracy theorists are going to think it’s completely unusual.

The public loves to eat up stories of CEO’s being stupid.

Youngjae’s half spaced-out by the time he’s calling her phone from a random telemarketing thing in the area, and they get to the good part. Jongup’s watching intently with a longing look in his eyes.

It’s over too quickly. She’s dead, they get the fuck out, and Youngjae shuts everything down while Jongup moves back to the couch.

“Can I order from the takeout place down the street?” he asks. His voice sounds more sinister, like it does when they’re all at the den planning out a hit together.

Youngjae looks over at him and eyes him slumped over, seeming tired. “As long as you put it under a fake name and go pick it up yourself.”

It takes a moment for Jongup to nod and get up to go find the takeout menu.

He’s sluggish, Youngjae notes. Or angry.

“You know,” Youngjae says when Jongup emerges from the kitchen again. “You’re not a deadweight.”

Jongup narrows his eyes menacingly. “What are you talking about?”

“Just because you’re stuck here while healing doesn’t make you useless.” Youngjae tilts his head. “You’re not missing out on much. You prefer ripping people apart, anyways. We don’t have any hits like that right now so it’s not like they’re doing your best work without you.”

“Oh, true.”

Youngjae sighs, and Jongup heads out the door with a few bills stuffed in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

“What’s this thing?” Jongup asks, poking an iPhone-sized block on a stand next to the TV.

Youngjae looks up from his computer and hisses. “Don’t touch _anything!_ ”

Jongup rolls his eyes and moves his hand away. “Okay, but what is it?”

“It’s a miniature monitor, what does it look like?” Youngjae’s hands don’t stop typing as he speaks, but he looks up every few seconds to make up Jongup hasn’t touched anything. “It’s for HDMI displays.”

“But why do you need something so small?”

“You should ask yourself that.”

“…Fuck you.”

 

* * *

 

Jongup ends up staying longer after the two weeks are over and his sutures are out. It doesn’t come as a surprise—he was attacked in his own home, after all. There’s no way he can go back or get a new place so soon, so he’s stuck living with Youngjae for a little while.

Or rather, Youngjae is stuck living with Jongup.

One morning, he gets up and snags his coffee off the counter, appreciating the white noise of some cars passing by and birds doing their bird things.

Of course that’s when Jongup looks at him and says, “We have a sudden drop today.”

And Youngjae—Youngjae understands himself, and understands how he looks to other people in all states because when Daehyun lived with him he had to audacity to point out every unique facial expression he’d make.

He knows how he looks in the morning, when his skin is paler and his eye bags stick out, when his hair is a frizzy bird’s nest and there’s no chance at seeing his eyebrows through it. With his eyes being so round, he looks a lot like an angered rodent, even when he’s not angry.

Then he actually gets angry, and he just looks worse.

“ _Are you fucking kidding me?_ ” His voice is like car tires over gravel. Jongup, still sleepy himself, shuffles to the side a bit. “Does no one _fucking_ understand that I like knowing things in advance so I have time to actually _fucking_ prepare something useful? Does no one _fucking_ understand that it’s just _fucking_ safer if we know shit in advance? Is it not common _fucking_ sense?”

“You should know that sudden drops are a part of this? It’s not like it’s a hit, chill. Also, I only just found out from Himchan like ten minutes ago,” Jongup says, “and he found out from the Boss like fifteen minutes ago. Complain to the Boss, not me.”

“How about I rip his _fucking_ dick off and give him a _fucking_ PowerPoint presentation on how to run a _fucking_ crime syndicate?” Youngjae raises his voice and wishes so badly that Yongguk lived with him instead—because he gets it. He lets Youngjae get all his feelings out and gives him that physical contact he needs. Even Daehyun’s okay at that.

“Can you stop yelling?” Jongup asks condescendingly, with his stupid judgemental glare and that stupid tone in his voice—so fucking stupid. “You’ll wake people up.”

“If you have a _fucking_ problem with me you can either get the _fuck_ out of my apartment or pay for me to have some _fucking_ antidepressants.” Youngjae dumps his coffee out in the sink and drops his mug into it. It doesn’t break—somehow. “And I suggest you just get the fuck out.”

Jongup exhales heavily, like he’s the one getting frustrated. “Jesus fuck,” he breathes, “just calm down.”

Youngjae yells at him, then. The words get lost somewhere in the air. It’s like someone stuffed rolls of cotton into Youngjae’s ears, and now he can’t hear himself. And his hand hurts, like he punched the countertop. He knows his did, but that doesn’t mean he remembers doing it.

He throws his medicine cupboard open and grabs his painkillers, already knowing that a headache’s going to come on in a few minutes. It doesn’t help that he can feel Jongup staring at him. He pops two into his mouth and closes everything back up with just as much force as he opened them with, and runs the tap. He fills his hands with water and drinks it, sending the pills down.

A bit of it catches in his throat, and he coughs as he turns the tap off again.

Then, there’s a hand on his shoulder. Gentle, calm—it makes him realize his own hands are shaking violently.

 

“Are you okay?” Jongup asks, confused.

 

A few things hit Youngjae, then, right after the fact that his hands are shaking.

One, is that he’s crying.

Two, is that he definitely looks like a hybrid of rabid and pathetic.

Three, is that Jongup doesn’t know him that well outside of their work. Sure, they’re like brothers, they’ve been at each other’s sides for years, but in the midst of that it’s easy to forget that he himself has never been really opened up by one person.

Yongguk knows how uncontrollable his anger can get and knows how to help, but hasn’t seen it. Daehyun has seen it, and only kind-of knows how to help. Neither of them know why, but Himchan does—except Himchan hasn’t seen it and doesn’t know how to help. Junhong knows a smidge of the why, has seen a little bit of it, and would probably know how to help because he’s Junhong and Junhong makes everyone feel better.

Jongup’s left in the dark, though. He’s the one that knows that Youngjae can get really bad, but nothing beyond that.

He’s in the same club as Daehyun, now—even though Daehyun’s seen far, far worse.

Youngjae’s managing to not break anything this time.

“Give me a minute,” he coughs, throat still feeling weird from the pills and the water. He turns his head away from Jongup, and Jongup doesn’t say anything dumb like Himchan would. No reassurances.

He waits.

It takes more than just a minute, though, and when that time runs out Jongup pats his back awkwardly and leaves. Probably to the living room to change. Youngjae isn’t about to go looking.

A headache comes on, and Youngjae can only hope the ibuprofen will work faster today.

 

* * *

 

It would take a lot of carelessness to not notice how Jongup starts watching him like a hawk.

When he slides next to Yongguk in the van on that particular day, and leans into him to be cuddled while they drive to the new drop point to get everything set up, he immediately feels those eyes on him. And they don’t seem to leave, ever. Not when Daehyun pulls him aside to tentatively ask if he’s okay, not when Himchan runs over a few repairs he needs done within the den, and not when Junhong excitedly talks to him about a new video game he’s bought that they have to try out together sometime.

It’s not like Youngjae hasn’t been watching Jongup either. He’s been intrigued ever since Jongup first woke up all demure and quiet in his apartment.

Though, despite all his paying attention, he doesn’t notice how Jongup’s things start to pile up in the apartment. His coat on the rack, his shoes by the door—he’s even started using the empty shelves in the storage closet’s upper half for his clothes, sharing the space with Youngjae’s gadget scraps.

At least not until it becomes glaringly obvious that Jongup hasn’t looked for a new place yet. But Youngjae’s too exhausted to mention it.

It gets comfortable with just the two of them. Two mediocre cooks make a better meal than one. The place gets cleaned faster by four hands. Now, if Youngjae were to wake up and not see a mug of coffee already set out for him, he’d be pretty pissed off. The shampoo and conditioner start running out faster, so they buy bigger bottles, and the bathroom counter is covered with double the products it had a month ago-

A month. It’s really been a month. And they still circle around each other, like two negative magnets that start to strain if they get too close.

Youngjae wishes they could connect, and doesn’t know why.

 

 

* * *

 

When they get the news that they’ll be out of work for a full two months because the Boss thinks they should get a break, no one takes it well.

But it’s Youngjae who’s practically tearing himself apart in frustration.

They need money, they need work—they need to be constantly doing something so they’re not sitting ducks just begging to be used as someone else’s target practice. The Boss is a fucking idiot, a cunt, a _bastard_ and if Youngjae ever gets to meet him he’ll be the last person that the Boss ever has the privilege of meeting.

When assassins like them are on the move, doing jobs, working left and right and around the clock, it’s harder to pinpoint their location. The worst times are the one-week intervals between some jobs. Never mind two entire months of doing nothing. Youngjae feels like a dartboard in a bar, just waiting for someone to throw the first shot.

Two full months.

It’s like his entire body is filled with static and absolutely anything he touches is going to set him off. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fucking fair to them. It’s going to get them killed.

Two full fucking months.

_“I want us to lay low for a while. After your recent hit, it’s important to look as innocent as we can. Besides, you boys have worked so hard this year. Have a little vacation.”_

It’s not a vacation when it could mean the end of their lives.

How are they supposed to get by, anyway? Are they still getting their paychecks? The Boss didn’t even mention the important details like that.

Two agonizing, anxiety-inducing months without work.

This isn’t fucking fair to them.

When the phone call ends, it’s silent enough that Youngjae can be heard vibrating. Yongguk doesn’t grab him in time to stop him from standing up and kicking the coffee table over. It crashes and something that was on it shatters.

And Youngjae screams.

It’s a stream of unintelligible cussing as he starts pacing and his arms don’t know what to do, where to go, or how to get this horrible tension out of them. His muscles feel coiled up like copper wire, electric anger flowing through them with no circuit to receive it all.

Youngjae lasts about five minutes like this.

What’s he even doing? He doesn’t know. He’s ranting, he’s being completely irrational, he’s probably scaring Daehyun and Junhong because they’re the pussies of the group—but there’s no way to know for sure.

He’s just fucking angry. There’s just burning, excruciating anger that he never learned how to control, and it’s building up, and it hurts, and he wants to burst and combust and maybe even die because that’s the only way this feeling with go away, and it hurts—and it—and—can’t breathe—and it hurts—and it—stop—and-

He raws his own voice and his knuckles end up bloody from a wall he doesn’t even remember punching.

He pushes over a chair and another one gets thrown at the wall with one hand, because using his strength is the only thing that relieves him.

By the second minute, he has no more joints he can crack. By the third, his throat feels like sandpaper and he can’t tell if real words are coming out. By the fourth, he’s crying and shaking so hard that he’s losing his balance.

And this feeling won’t go away, and it hurts—and it—and he can’t breathe but he’s trying but he just can’t—he’s trying to stop but his body says _no_ -

By the fifth, he’s on his knees and clutching his head. It’s been throbbing for a while. He can’t take it anymore.

The pause he takes to collapse is enough to make him stop. The feeling is still there, bubbling just under the boiling point. He’s standing over the edge of a cliff, feeling that falling sensation and each time gambling on whether or not it’s his fear or if he’s actually about to drop.

And it hurts—but his lungs are expanding now, his diaphragm is expanding now. Oxygen. Good. His body is too tired to tell him _no_.

It starts to hurt it in a different way.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t need to look to know the expressions on everyone’s faces. He just needs to listen to his own thoughts to know that he’s just made himself appear a little less human to them.

His hands are shaking more than his mother’s ever did, even when she went through withdrawal. It's almost inhuman.

 

What the fuck is wrong with him?

If she saw him like this, she’d never love him again.

 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats as someone puts the throw blanket from the couch over him. They wrap their arms around him and it becomes obvious that it’s Daehyun. One is around his waist but the other is tight across his chest and biceps, like a restraint.

Restraint. Good. It starts to hurt a little less.

“I’ll take him back to our apartment,” Jongup says to someone, somewhere behind him. Youngjae can’t bring himself to care. He’s too busy remembering when he had to tell Daehyun that being held with just the right pressure can bring him back down from a fit.

Himchan says to Junhong something that can’t be heard clearly.

“Make sure you give him ibuprofen,” Daehyun says to Jongup. He reluctantly lets go, and Jongup tries to lift Youngjae up.

He shakes Jongup off and stands up by himself instead, keeping the blanket around him. He’s not a baby. He doesn’t reject the contact when Jongup’s arm finds its way around his shoulder, though.

His eyes stay on the ground, scared of what kinds of faces he’ll see if he looks up.

“Wait, can you drive?” Jongup asks…probably Yongguk.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Yongguk says.

Youngjae smiles to himself. He’s not totally gone right now after all.

On the way home, Youngjae finds out that Jongup is half-decent at cuddling. A little rigid, but he’s warm and his arms are strong. Strong enough to hold Youngjae back in case he starts to get rabid again, which is exactly what he needs.

One of Jongup’s hands starts to scratch Youngjae’s scalp, and he thinks that Yongguk might’ve told him to do that but who cares? It’s distracting from his pounding head.

It’s enough to lull him to sleep before they make it back.

 

* * *

 

Youngjae wakes up at 6:00 A.M to the scent of coffee, and with red-rimmed eyes.

He stumbles into the kitchen, and as per usual now, his mug is made.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he mumbles to Jongup. The hood on his oversized pullover happens to be an excellent hiding place—especially when he sits on the counter and pulls the bottom of the sweater over his knees. “I’m usually better at controlling…that.”

Jongup doesn’t say anything, so Youngjae looks up. He’s met with the sight of notoriously-feral Moon Jongup, whose gaze is as sharp as his knives and who always looks down to kill someone.

It shakes Youngjae at first, but then he notices something.

Jongup’s not actually mad.

When his gaze softens again, it all clicks in Youngjae’s head, and his lights flicker on.

“Thank you for helping me, by the way,” he adds, because he doesn't know what else to say. “You didn’t have to.”

Jongup answers by walking over and grabbing Youngjae’s ankles—pulling his legs out from under his pullover and spreading them just enough that he can stand between them.

“What are you doing?” Youngjae demands, but his voice comes out shaky. Jongup takes his mug away and slides it to the far side of the counter, where it can’t and won’t be knocked over. “Hey, _wait_ -”

Youngjae finds out that he squeaks like a toy when Jongup’s hands rest on his cheeks, and his fingers nudge the hood until it falls away from Youngjae’s face.

Someone’s heart is beating faster by the second.

“Uh-”

“Do you feel better?”

Youngjae’s words get sucked out of him, so he just nods. With his lips parted. Like an idiot.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was that bad?” Jongup asks. It’s hard to look him in the eyes when his voice goes all soft.

“I didn’t think it was important,” Youngjae says, shrugging.

Jongup looks offended, of all things. But his hands are still on Youngjae’s face. “You thought wrong.”

 

_Oops._

 

Youngjae still doesn’t know what exactly is going on—his hands find themselves on Jongup’s face, too. He’s looking into Jongup’s eyes.

He’s looking into Jongup’s eyes

He’s looking into Jongup’s eyes.

His eyes are closed and he’s kissing Jongup— _wait when the fuck did that happen_.

 

There’s static all through his body again, but it’s different now. This time it’s goosebumps that rise on his skin and a shiver that runs down his back, and a blankness in his mind that only Jongup can fill.

And then he’s looking into Jongup’s eyes again.

“You’re really oblivious, you know that?” Jongup breathes, and Youngjae laughs at the dangerous look on his face.

When he pulls Jongup back in for another kiss, it’s absolutely _rabid_.

 

And it doesn’t hurt when it’s like this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by two things:  
> 1\. a jjba fic that i really like  
> 2\. the pure rage on youngjae's face in skydive when jongup "dies" and they sink to the ground together
> 
> i hate to beg for comments but like please comment i'm dying for validation


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